Thoughts On The Dead

Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To

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An Unhealthy Relationship



“Yes, you!”

Why are you back in the hospital?


Did your appendix and Miles–


–Davis hunt you down? Okay, no need to be so zesty about the situation. Lower your zest.

“Fuck you and fuck your zest! I had surgery at the beginning of the week and you PROMISED to not pull any stupid bullshit while I was recuperating.”

What happened?

“I went back to Montana to rest up. I have a little cabin there, 23,000 square feet, real cozy, next door to Harrison and Calista. All I wanted to do was take it easy and watch a little teevee and maybe fly a couple porn stars in. And–if I may remind you–I was promised that I’d be left alone.”

I did promise that.

“So what happened?”

My promises are not worth much.


What did your appendix and Miles Davis do to you?

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

I won’t tell anyone.


Cross my heart.

“Miles Davis forcibly penetrated me using my own removed appendix as a dildo.”

Oh, that’s not right.



“I don’t wanna settle, asshole. All of this is bullshit.”

They let you wear your toppermost in the hospital.

“Yeah, that’s pretty cool, but it doesn’t make up for the organ-rape.”

Probably not. Hey, lemme talk to Miles. See if I can work this out.

“Just keep that lunatic away from me.”

Sure. Mr. Davis? You around?

“Don’t go calling for me, motherfucker. I ain’t your dog.”

Mr. Davis, did you sexually assault John Mayer with his own appendix?

“Yeah, I did that shit.”

Why are you smiling?

“That shit was some funny shit. Little bitch was squealing and squirming.”

None of this is funny. If you hadn’t died in 1995, you’d be criminally liable.

“Nah. Bitch liked it.”

He didn’t.

“Yeah, he did. Shot his load all over his toppermost.”


“Couldn’t have hated it too fucking much.”

I regret bringing you into this universe.

“You knew who the fuck I was.”

I thought you’d be cranky and maybe punch some people. I didn’t in my wildest dreams imagine you’d be molesting John Mayer with his own innards.

“That’s why I’m a fucking genius and you ain’t.”

You Had To See It Coming


“Yeah, yeah. Like you’re such a prize.”

Who the hell are you?

“I’m John Mayer’s appendix.”

Oh, COME ON. It’s not bad enough I chat with abstract concepts, dead famous animals, and stools; I gotta talk to pop stars’ internal organs now?

“Hey, I’m not internal anymore.”

Same difference.

“I’m getting a lot of visceraphobia here.”

Not a thing.


Whatever. So what’s your deal, anyway? 40 years of doing absolutely nothing and you explode?

“But I didn’t explode. Didn’t even get a chance to fulfill my destiny.”

Your destiny?

“Murdering John Mayer.”


“Me and his spleen have been talking about it for years. Fuck that guy.”


“Ever hear his songs?”

Yes, but that’s no reason to murder the guy.

“No, no. Who does he talk about in his songs? The heart. Eyes. Ears. Lungs. Hands. Every fucking body part gets a song, but me? What do I get? Bupkiss, that’s what I get. Fuck that guy.”


“I will not be ignored.”

You will be now. You’ve almost certainly been thrown away.

“Oh, no. I got rescued. Someone came and got me, and then plan’s still on. John Mayer will pay for how he treated us.”

Someone? Us? Who is “someone?” Who is “us?”

“You know who, motherfucker.”


“Me and the bitch’s appendix won’t be treated this fucking way.”

I hate everything about this universe.

“Appendix, get in the fucking car.”

“Can I drive?”

“You ain’t got no hands, motherfucker. No, you can’t drive.”


Reunited And It Feels So Goat

“If you want one, I’ll get you one.”

I would have nowhere to wear a toppermost.

“Yeah. And I was just kidding. You’re not even supposed to know these exist.”

There’s a lot going on with that one.

“Summer Morning In The Fields?”

What now?

“All toppermosts have names. This one is Summer Morning In The Fields. I think it’s apropos. Fascinating story behind her.”


“All toppermosts are female.”


“I had to travel to Japan to persuade a retired master tailor to create one last piece. His name was Hattori Hando.”


“No. Hando. Completely different guy than the guy you’re thinking of.”

If you say so.

“He had retired to a fishing village outside Okinawa, where he ran a non-sushi bar.”


“He cooked the fish.”


“Place smelled delicious.”

I’ll bet.

“No one knew his true identity. I bowed deeply, and then removed my overcoat to reveal one of his early masterpieces, Snowing On The Old People. He said nothing, and brought me some bass. I usually don’t like bass, but he poached it and it was just salty and creamy and I knew I should be eating my chicken breasts but I finished the whole plate. Oh my God, so yummy.”

I get it. Good fish.

“Hattori Hando sits down with me and we banter. So much tension.”


“He asks me why I want a Hattori Hando toppermost.”

What’d you tell him?

“I said, ‘Because I want to look fancy.'”

That was it?

“It worked. He let me stay in his attic while he sewed. I spent my time practicing wearing clothes. At the end of a month, Hattori Hando came to me and we had a very Japanese ceremony. Like, if a layman saw it, he would totally know how Japanese it was. He presented the garment to me and said, “John Mayer, if you meet God while you are wearing this toppermost, then God will not know if it’s a robe or a kimono, but He’ll be pretty sure it isn’t a coat. You owe me like a trillion yen for the food and rent.’ It was a beautiful, spiritual moment.”



“I hate you.”

You’ve got every right.

“John Mayer, fashion is my passion.”


“I’m not gonna tell you again.”

“What do you know about goats?”


“There’s nothing to know! Very easy animal. Eats anything and won’t stop fucking. Goats are the opposite of pandas.”

“Why are we talking about goats? Why do you have a goat?”

“Why do WE have a goat!”

“Dammit, Benjy, did you buy a goat?”

“No! I invested in a goat. And I didn’t invest in just one. The key to goats is volume.”

How many goats do I now own?

“It’s gonna sound like a big number out of context.”




“I told you: volume.”

Just because you keep saying it, doesn’t mean it makes sense.

“John, bubby, you can’t play your guitar forever. The concussions are adding up. These goats are our future.”

How do you make money off them?

“How do you not make money off them? Meat, milk, fur, odds and ends. Scrap cost alone is in the five figure region. And while they’re alive, you rent them out.”

“Rent them out?”

“To petting zoos. Children’s parties.”

“The lonely.”

“Godammit, Benjy.”


“Am I a goat pimp now?”

“That’s such a small part of it. It’s barely even worth mentioning. And it’s an upscale clientele!”

“An upscale clientele of goatfuckers?”

“These are very successful men who grew up on farms and had formative experiences in barns. Don’t you judge them.”

“I will absolutely judge goatfuckers.”

“No offense, but that’s why Trump won.”

“Benjy, sell the goats.”

“You’re not seeing the upside here.”

“Sell the damn goats!”

“I’ll get rid of the motherfuckers.”



“Oh, no.”

“I see you came back from the fucking dead. That’s good. I like that.”

“Not you.”

“Look how fucking sad I am.”

“Miles, you murdered me. I don’t wanna talk to you.”

“I like that toppermost.”

“Oh, thank you. That’s so sweet ofHEY wait a minute.”

“Get over here and take off your drawers and get freaky with yourself. Do it on top of the lion.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Mr. Davis? Hi. My name is Benjy Eisen and I’m John’s manag–”



“Who the fuck did I just murder?”

“Benjy. Don’t worry about it. He’ll be fine.”

“Come back to me, John Mayer. I’m sorry I shot and killed you.”

“You didn’t just kill me, Miles. You killed our love.”


Sorry it didn’t work out, Mr. Davis.

“Never know what’s gonna happen.”

That’s true. You might get back together.

“Yeah. I think I’m gonna stalk him.”

Please don’t stalk John Mayer, Miles Davis.

“I do what the fuck I want.”

I know.

An Expected Conclusion With An Unexpected Postscript

Hey, Mr. Davis. You look…I don’t know how you look. I can’t read your expression.

“Pissed off at white motherfuckers.”

That’s a given.

“Nah. Got a special anger right now. Hey, you’re a Jew.”

No good conversation has ever started this way.

“You must know motherfuckers at the New York Times.”

I don’t. I know people who write for music magazines.

“Yeah, some of my friends are losers, too.”

That’s just rude.

“I wake up. Do my stretches. Go downstairs. John got my breakfast the way I like it.”

How do you like it?

“Small lines. Motherfuckers wanna lay out big-ass rails the size of Hercules’ dick. Show they’re tough or something. I don’t appreciate that. Low class. Gimme six itty-bitty lines. And some fruit. Gotta start the day healthy.”


“And a Heineken. Love that shit.”

Sounds like your day began well.

“Then I opened the fucking paper. And I found it. The shit I been looking for all my life.”


“Proof that the white man is the fucking devil.”

The blowjob about the Nazi?

“What the fuck is wrong with you motherfuckers? How many chances you motherfuckers give each other? N—-r sits down for some fucking song and he can’t get a job. White man wants to kill everything darker than a fucking cuticle, and you talk about his favorite fucking teevee shows.”

I have no defense.

“The fuck is wrong with you motherfuckers?”

Again: I do not know.

“I start shooting off my mouth about how I wanna kill all the honkies, you think the fucking Times is gonna be so nice to me?”


“This angered me. Then I finished my Heineken and there wasn’t another one there for me. That angered me, as well. I needed to do something with my feelings.”

Oh, God.

“I shot and killed my wife, John Mayer.”


“You knew it was coming.”

I didn’t think it would happen off-screen.

“This dialogue bullshit don’t lend itself to fucking action scenes.”

Oh, Mr. Davis. Is he really dead?

“If he isn’t, then he’s in for a hell of a surprise when he wakes up in that landfill.”

You dumped John Mayer in a landfill? He’s a Grammy winner!

“I know. I traded his awards for pills.”

You’re a horrible man.

“Don’t listen to him, Miles! Everyone’s wanted to shoot Josh for years. Grab your racket and let’s hit around.”

“Who the fuck is that?”

“I don’t know if we’ve met. I’m Mickey Hart.”

“Yeah. Airto told me about you. Said you crazy. Like crashing sports cars and getting in fights and sniffing cocaine.”

“Yeah, that’s me.”

“I like that. Fuck tennis, though. Let’s just take the balls and throw ’em at old Chinese ladies.”

“That sounds much better, honestly.”

“Gimme five minutes to change.”

For Mayer Or For Poorer

They spelled your name wrong, Josh.

“This is going to come as a shock to you, but I’m a highly respected artist.”

You paint?

“Not that kind of artist.”

What is this for?



“And record sales. I move product like Escobar.”

You do sell a lot of units. I don’t see the last album on there.

“Excuse me?”

The Search for Everything. Didn’t go Gold?

“It did.”


“In Canada.”

Does your girlfriend live in Canada, too, Josh?

“Y’know, your shitty little attitude and hateful disposition can’t bother me today. I’m happy. I’ve got, like, nine bands; millions of dollars worth of probably-not-counterfeit watches; my tattoos are so sexy; and I’m happily married. I’m objectively winning at life.”

How is Miles?

“I am so in love. Bought him a present.”

Oh, God. Lemme guess.

“Look at this fucking toppermost my bitch bought me.”

I was right.

“I’m clean as a motherfucker. Bitch got a good eye.”

That is a hell of a toppermost, Mr. Davis.

“Best wife I ever had. Shops more than Cicely did, but he pays for his own shit. Brings me presents. Washes all my shit real good. Gets all freaky on my armpits.”

You’re into that?

“I wasn’t, but now I am.”


“He’s a good wife. Strong on the inside. Very spiritual. And powerful legs. Boy can take a pounding. I like that. I got a hard stroke. I stroke long, I stroke hard.”

Sounds like you got something good going.

“Love that motherfucker. Traded some of his watches for coke.”

“What now?”

“Don’t interrupt me when I’m fucking talking.”

“But you said–”


“Which watches did you–”


“Did you at least save any coke for–”


“Stop slapping me!”



“That better?

Could you stop beating him, please!?

“When he acts right.”

Mr. Davis, may I speak to your wife, John Mayer?


Josh? Buddy?

“Daddy was right. I shouldn’t talk back like that.”

Josh, I need you to know how serious I am, so I’m going to call you John.


Yeah. Johnny?

“Just John.”

He’s going to kill you.

“He’s not. He loves me.”

He may very well love you. Most people get killed by people who love them.

“You’re just speculating.”

I’m not. I write this bullshit. I decided he was going to shoot you a couple days ago.

“It is the logical dramatic progression.”

I go where the muse takes me.

“I really think I’ll be fine.”

I promise you that you are not.

“Bitch! Get over here and grease up.”

“I gotta go.”

I warned you.

In Which, Through Fits And Starts, A Twist, Undreamt Of By The Typist ‘Fore His Sitting, Occurs

I don’t even know what to say to you at this point.

“How about ‘What a splendid toppermost, John?'”

No. Definitely not that.

“I like to look on the outside how I feel on the inside, and today I feel like an Albuquerque dentist’s office in 1978.”

Nailed it.

“Thank you. Honestly, man? I don’t know what I love most about clothes: buying them, wearing them, or washing them. But, you know, if you think about it: those three things are intertwined. I have a really involved metaphor comparing tee-shirts to the Holy Trinity, if you’d like to hear it.”

I would not. Seriously, what the fuck is that garment?

“I can’t keep telling you this. It is called a toppermost. It’s neither a kimono nor a robe, and it’s certainly not a coat.”

You can’t define words that way.

“Just watch me.”

Got me there.

“The toppermost is one of several articles of clothing that poor people don’t know about. Like footkerchiefs.”

Are those like handkerchiefs?

“Sort of.”

What else?

“An aglellon.”

What is that?

“It’s like a hat for your neck.”

You’re making this all up.

“I will send you a video of my aglellon closet. I’ll edit it into a trying-on-outfits montage like in chick flicks.”

I would like to see that. Hey, speaking of chicks: you have to make it to the end of this tour without getting accused of anything.

“It’s like a feeding frenzy.”

Just gotta make it to the end of the tour. You know that we’ve all grown fond of you, but if drag the Dead into the Problem Attic with you, Deadhead assassins will be dispatched.

“Deadhead assassins?”

Yeah. They’re not the best. Far more dangerous to themselves than to you. But you’ll be in a very odd state of existence forevermore: nonstop attempts on your life, but all of them doomed to fail.

“Dude, it’ll be fine. And nothing’s happening this tour, anyway. I’ve settled down.”

Oh, God.

“Bitch, who you talking to?”

“No one important, Daddy.”

“I forgot my fucking robe. Gimme your toppermost.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

I simply do not know what’s going on here.

“It’s called love, you simple motherfucker. Bitch was respectful, educated. Learned how to cook my food right. Asshole real tight. Talked too fucking much, but I trained that out of him. Moved him in to the house in the City.”

You’re gay now?


Saw that coming.

“Miles fucking Davis ain’t a fucking sissy. Nothing gay about fucking a man. Getting fucked by a man? That’s some gay-ass shit.”

I don’t think that’s how it works.

“No one asked your opinion on my fucking love life.”


“Yeah. I didn’t see it coming. Surprised me.”

Me, too.

“Thinking about letting him get gay married to me.”

“It would just be married, Daddy.”


“What the fuck did I tell you about correcting me in public?”

“That you appreciated constructive criticism?”


“That was in private, you dumb bitch.”

“Oh! Right! I got them confused. I thought ‘Speak up in public and be quiet in private’ but now that I think about it, it just makes no sense. I’m a scatterbrain.”


“Not in the face, Daddy! I need that!”

Please, Miles Davis, stop beating your fiance, John Mayer.

“When he stops needing a fucking beating.”

This is getting truly dark.

“Shouldn’t have fucking brought me here, you didn’t want me to be myself.”

None of this is my fault.

“Now fuck off. We going aglellon shopping.”


Badman And Robin

“Fucking exhausting.”


“Being a genius.”

Tell me about it.


“Don’t you ever compare yourself to me.”

You’re right. I apologize.

“I did some acting. Went down to Miami. Did that cop show. What was that shit called? The No Sock-Wearing Motherfuckers Hour?”

Miami Vice.

“Yeah, right. These motherfuckers call me up. I’m out on Long Island. Swimming every day. Hip feels good. I’m strong. I’m masculine. They tell me how great I am. Want me to be on their show. Got one question. Could I act?”

What did you say?

“I flew down to Miami, found the motherfucker said that dumb shit to me, and punched him in his Jew nose. Might have been an Italian nose. Maybe Greek. Big motherfucker. Then I pissed on him in front of his coworkers. You can’t take no shit from these Hollywood motherfuckers.”

Good advice.

“They got me playing a pimp. Got a cane and shit. I asked the producer why I couldn’t be playing a doctor. Father was a fucking dentist, I can’t be a doctor? I became angry.”

Did you hit him with the cane?

“I did.”

Yeah. Other than that, how’d it go?

“Shit, acting is fucking easy. It’s just lying.”

And standing in the right place.

“They’re obsessed with that shit. Wanna thank you for hooking me up with your boy. We getting along.”

Josh? Oh, no. You two are friends now? And going on adventures?

“We ain’t friends. We have a relationship.”



“Yes, Daddy?”

Oh, no. What’s happened here?

“You may answer, bitch.”

“I have been turned out.”

Oh, this is not what I wanted to happen.”

“And yet it did. Miles Da–”

“What the fuck you call me?”

“–Daddy has claimed me as his bitch and is now earning off my ass.”

I’m sorry, buddy. Why are you dressed like that?

“Did you know there were Furry marathoners?”

I didn’t.

“There are. And nine of them just jerked off on me.”

“And paid you for it! Bring me my fucking money.”

I didn’t intend this.

“Help me.”


Otherwise Known As The Chickenshit Show

Jeff Chimenti looks like a beloved high school music teacher who’s also a member in good standing of his local BDSM community.


Billy and Oteil have both noticed the meatball the intern is holding aloft. This will not end well; Billy loves meatballs, and interns. Oteil also enjoys meatballs, but no one’s getting tackled for one. Billy’s gonna tackle the intern.


All new on CBS this season: Friends. Due to legal incompetence on the part of Warner Brothers, the rights to remake Friends became available, so CBS cast these six and they perform the episodes line-for-line. It’s fucking terrible. (Bobby used to be a Joey, but now he’s a Phoebe. Mickey is Ross. Josh banged Rachel.)


Can Mickey still fit the merch he’s yoinked these past few tours into a storage space, or does he need a warehouse?


ATTENTION PLEASE: Billy has new sneakers.


I can’t see his feet. Is Oteil in his goddamned flippity-flops? Bobby had the sense of decorum to put on his formal socks, but I think Oteil is going full flop. You are not running into a Sarasota Publix in for a chicken tender sub and a sweet tea, Oteil. At least Bobby’s sandals are made of leather.

Pss pss pss.

I am being informed that there are such a thing as vegan sandals, and even if Bobby didn’t care, he would most likely wear them just so not to get protested by Lilian Monster.


What is that?

“My toppermost?”

Your kimono.

“No, no. It’s a Japanese-influenced men’s toppermost designed by Givenchy in associated with streetFUVK”

There’s no such thing as a toppermost.

“You only know about poor people clothes. We have access to shit you’ve never heard of.”


“This is what I like to call ‘Fun John.’ Real playful, just mixing and matching and, you know, trying to display my own style. I’m always thinking ‘What is my aesthetic?'”

What is your aesthetic?

“Guy who spent an hour deciding what to wear.”

You nailed it. What is that garment made of?


Is that like ultrasuede? A synthetic?

“No, it’s real silk, but much fancier. The worms are all wearing little tuxedos–get this–made from the silk that they themselves produced. It’s self-sufficiency in action.”

Is it expensive?

“Oh my God, yes.”

Ballpark it for me.

“Where are we?”


“I wanna know how far my dollar goes. We could buy a town in most countries for what this thing cost.”

We’re in America.

“You could start your own business.”

Pre-built space or custom structure?

“The second thing.”

Goddammit, Josh Meyers.

“Don’t call me that. Don’t worry about how I spend my money.”

I’m not worried. I’m judgmental.

“Kiss my ass. What should I do with my money?”

Take as much of it as you need for yourself and give the rest to the poor.

“I will not.”

Well, there you go.

“And of course you’d say to give my money to the poor. You’re the poor.”

I’m just repeating the words of some Jewish guy I met once.

“You would buy just as much stupid bullshit as me if you had a nickel to your name. Easy to make a decision for someone else when you’ll never face it.”

You’re right. Absolutely right. Tell you what: you give me all your money. Then you’ll see that I would live up to my words and distribute it to the needy.

“This is a trick.”

It is.

“You wouldn’t give the money away.”

I would.

“I don’t believe you.”

If you’re feeling froggy, leap.

“What if I gave you a little bit of money and saw if you gave that away? Like, as a test.”

No. I will keep and squander any amount of money less than all. All or nothing. Maximum Christ, baby.

“I’m gonna pass.”

“I like that toppermost, boy.”

“Them other white boys look like homeless lumberjacks or some shit. Hats on indoors. They lucky I got a cocktail.”

“Oh, wow, Mr. Davis. Hi. My name is John Mayer.”

“I don’t fucking care.”

“I am such an enormous fan of your music. I have every one of your albums, every single one. You’re one of the most important men in musical history. In American history! It’s just such an honor. Wow.”

“In the key of E flat, what does the C minor resolve to?”

“G minor.”

“You see this medal?”

“I do.”

“You holding?”

“We are. Collectively.”

“Gather that shit up. Those motherfuckers look smelly.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Nice. Respectful. Hey, motherfucker.”


“The other motherfucker.”


“Yeah. Why didn’t you introduce me to this white boy before? I like this young man.”

Awwwwww. I wanted you to hate him.

“I’m fucking unpredictable.”


Begun, These Rando Wars Have

Don’t you say–

“Rando War!”

–Rando War. Goddammit, Oteil. You’re above this.

“I’m not.”


“You would not believe how many more randos I attract since I started singing lead. They’re like moths, and I’m a bug zapper.”

Are you electrocuting randos to death?

“Not randos. Not plural.”

You’re really becoming a true Grateful Dead, Oteil.

“I’m settling in.”

“Oh, is Rando War back on?”


“BOOM, I just won Rando War.”

There are no winners in a Rando War, Jeff Chimenti. Just death. And randos.

“But look how many I have!”

Venture not down this path, Jeff Chimenti.

“Kiss my balls.”

Everyone’s a dick tonight.

“Quit whining, motherfucker. Don’t bring your bitch shit to a Rando War.”

Oh, not you, too.

“Rando War is over. I won. Tell all them white motherfuckers to go home and kiss on each other.”

That’s Wynton Marsalis.

“Motherfucker’s a rando to me.”


“I’m a cold motherfucker. You see my shirt?”

I do.

“That shit’s the truth.”

None of this makes any sense any longer.

“Whose fucking fault is that?”


“You can pick off my cheese plate if you want.”

Thank you, Mr. Davis.

“It’s the little moments of humanity that make Rando War such a fucking tragedy.”

If you say so.

Sketches Of Oklahoma

Goddamn, you look good, Mr. Davis.

“I know.”

What are those trousers made of?

“Masculinity. And some sort of reptile.”

You always were a snappy dresser.

“That’s what I hated about those fucking hillbilly bands I used to have to play with. Sloppy little white children. If they was my white children, I’d drown ’em in the fucking tub. What’s that ugly motherfucker’s name with the high voice?”

Geddy Lee.


Steve Perry.


Neil Young.

“That’s him. Big gawky motherfucker. Played with him in New York for that Jew who was always yelling and trying to steal from me.”

Bill Graham.

“That’s him. Neil Young. Yeah. Couldn’t bear to fucking look at him. Got sweat under his armpits, jeans all stained. Motherfucker looked like the bum the other bums use as a cautionary tale. Smelled like an asshole left in the sun. It angered me. I didn’t like it. And his band was worse. I slapped his bass player on principle.”

Of course you did.

“Keith Jarrett showed up for a gig looking like that once. I kicked him real hard in the chest. Man needs to be clean. Look his best. Cut his hair. Take a fucking shower now and then. Shape the fuck up.”


“Who the fuck is that?”

Oh, shit. This won’t end well.


“This motherfucker?”

He just shows up. Sorry, Mr. Davis.


“He crazy?”

Yes. Oh, and he’s most likely gonna–


–challenge you to karate.

“Karate my dick, motherfucker.”




“Who the fuck you calling ‘boy?'”


Yeah, this was the only way this could end.

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